That finds shelter in your gut
Squeezing and twisting.
A pushing up
Into your throat
Or your eyes.
It’s that enormous collision
The one that shatters your bones.
It’s when you have to explain yourself:
I am the idea.
I am the rhetoric.
I am not alone.
I am the rhetoric.
I am not alone.
That deep rooted tree
toes frigid
clenching the frosted soil below.
A harsh wind bites
the deep brown oak
broken out of the frozen ground.
How far do its roots reach?
Toes ache
skyward
into the stretched branches
fingers close
a fallen leaf’s
tender body
crumbling with a gasp.
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